


liar

by jehoney



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Arguing, Breakfast, Domestic, Domestic Disputes, Except he doesn't, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Morning After, Pining, Smoking, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, and actually maybe wants to kiss him., brian really hates roger, he's not universally irresistable bri just thinks he is, rog gets pied off by a girl he shags this is Women's Rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-09 01:30:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: Brian hates Roger Meddows Taylor. And he’s not joking. He can’t stand him.in which brian isn't even fooling himself





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mega mega short lil pining drabble that i wrote in dec to tide you over as i write my assignment and can't update 'i'm gonna come clean'
> 
> i'd like to thank: 
> 
> \- roger's carpet fabric hat  
> \- that story about queen being too broke to buy rog new drumsticks  
> \- deaky with a chilly red nose in the 'spread your wings' video
> 
> enjoy xo

Brian hates Roger Meddows Taylor. And he’s not joking. He can’t stand him.

He raises his eyes from the article he’s trying to read and takes in the sight of him, slouched almost horizontally on the sofa across the living room. Brian hates how Roger’s legs stretch over the entirety of the coffee table, threatening to knock off at least three mugs. He hates the way he taps his cigarette ash onto the cushion, rather than reach forward a metre for the ashtray. He hates the way he squints, straining his eyes rather than getting them tested. He hates the stupid fucking hat that looks like it’s made out of carpet fabric pulled low over his eyes, the dog- eared copy of Naked Lunch that he’s thumbing through with plastered fingers, the inane motif he’s been humming for the last twenty minutes. God, Brian could spend all afternoon finding things to hate about him. Luckily, he’s saved from that fate.

“Afternoon, all.” comes a voice from the hall. It’s Deaky, revealed as he rounds the corner, shopping bags in hand, and makes his way through to the kitchen. “Tea?”

He’s bundled up against the cold, nose and cheeks red and shining. It’s been the first frost of the year, which Freddie insisted over breakfast means an appropriate time to start decorating for the festive period, despite the fact that it’s still only mid-November. Brian manages a “Please.” in affirmation, and Rog finally corrects his hideous posture, broken out of his reading and stubbing his cigarette out (in the ashtray, thankfully).

“I’d love one, thanks,” he grins, and Brian adds Roger’s voice, scratchy and out of use after two hours of companionable silence, to his mental list. Deaky nods in acknowledgement as he unwinds the ridiculously long scarf from his neck.

“Milk and sugar?” he asks, and Brian notes that Freddie’s festive spirit has taken hold in some places, judging by the garish beauty of John’s jumper. Whilst Brian’s tea preference remains consistent, Rog’s can waver wildly from a hungover groan for black and bitter to the sugariest weakest brew imaginable, so he can hardly blame John for asking, even if Rog looks slightly wounded that he can’t read his mind.

Lifting his hat to run a hand through his messy hair as best he can, he hesitates before answering: “Plenty milk, three and a half sugars.” Brian can’t help but roll his eyes at the specificity, and Roger catches it. He sticks his tongue out at him. Brian adds this to his mental list and returns to his article.

“You’re getting one, Rog,” Deaky says with an unimpressed look around the doorframe of the kitchen, “We’re running low, and your teeth will thank me.”

Roger scoffs.

“I think I know how to care for my own teeth, but thanks for the concern, mate.”

He flops back against the cushions once more, and Brian tries not to notice the way his shirt rides up under his thick cardigan. It’s like Rog is doing his best to irritate him.

“I thought you’d just been to the shop?” he asks.

God, he’s such a brat.

“I was, but funds had to be prioritised for necessities.” John calls from the kitchen, and Rog shoots Brian a perplexed look which he answers with a shrug. He’s certain both Roger (and Freddie, for that matter) would consider refined sugar a distinct necessity, despite them being the two people in the world who need it least to boost their energy levels, but he’s really not sure to what John is referring

There’s a sound of the kettle being filled, spoons clinking in mugs and then a long rustling before Deaky’s head reappears. He’s holding something behind his back, which he’s obviously trying to hide. He hovers there in the door with a sort of nervousness that Brian assumes is meant to build suspense, but Roger just raises an eyebrow at him, so John cuts the teasing short. And from behind his back he pulls a pair of drumsticks, tossing them to Roger, whose face lights up as he catches them. He grins in the way Brian hates, with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth and his eyes impossibly sparkling. The sugar debacle is evidently forgotten.

“Deaky! Fuck, mate, did you go all the way to the music shop for these? It’s miles out of the way.” He gives them a few spins, feeling their weight and bringing them down on the edge of the table. It’s the third pair this past month, the others having been destroyed, lost, or thrown to crowds in the pubs they’ve been playing. If Brian were making the decisions, he’d let Roger play with pencils, but John is very frequently too kind for his own good, and if he wants to walk an extra mile to pick them up he can’t exactly fault him on his selflessness.

Brian pipes up despite himself, though, because the rate of destruction is becoming a tad annoying.

“Maybe you shouldn’t smash yours quite so hard every night.” He suggests “Or let certain young ladies keep them as souvenirs.”

Roger does have an unreasonable talent for losing sticks, items of clothing and other more unmentionable items to selectedly gorgeous members of their audience, and Brian would be lying if he said it didn’t make him bristle a little. That’s probably why the latter half of his sentence comes out with a little more bite than he intends, but if Roger notices all he shows of it is a quick, narrowed glance.

“Piss off, mate.” Comes the verbal retort, though lacking in any real venom, “Like you don’t do the same with your picks.”

Brian can’t argue with him on that front, but in fairness:

“Picks don’t cost half as much.”

Roger fixes him with a baleful glare from underneath his unruly hair. Brian can also play just as well with his fingers or a penny, but the thought of Roger smacking the drums with his hands, whilst momentarily amusing would probably destroy the kit. Not to mention his palms.

“Ladies, please,” John’s voice drifts out from the kitchen in a domestic attempt at conciliation, “Rog, be gentle with them, we really can’t afford any more. And maybe you’ll find you won’t cut up your knuckles so much.”

With a look down at his hands, Roger picks at one of the plasters, and Brian can see for the first time the grazes on the protruding bone – bloody and raw and actually looking quite painful. Roger doesn’t seem to think so though, as he shouts through the door:

“Pain is glory. And I’m a fucking rockstar, Deaks!”

“You’re a knob.”

Brian can’t help himself and is fully prepared for the withering smile that is shot his way.

“Where’s Freddie?” John re-enters with the question, mug in each hand, setting one down on the coffee table in front of Roger, and handing the other to Brian, who puts his article down to gratefully receive it into chilly hands.

“Upstairs, writing.” He explains, and, as if by magic, a phrase of notes find their way down the stairs into the room. John listens for a second, impressed.

“I’ll take him a cuppa.” He says, and turns back to the kitchen, but Roger looks up at him from blowing on his drink.

“He said he wanted to be left alone.”

Brian lets out a sharp laugh. He’s sure that Freddie’s tolerance for John and his mild offers of tea is far higher than his tolerance for Roger and his bullshit.

“I think he just wanted you to piss off.” He says, and if he’s projecting the so be it, he’s projecting. Roger gives him a look over the rim of his mug, a searching and accusatory look as if to say ‘why are you being such a prick today?’.

“Maybe,” he starts, with a hard edge to his voice, “he just wanted to be left alone. Not everything revolves around me being an oblivious wanker, Bri.”

In fairness, Brian has been asking for that, but it still hits him somewhere under his ribs and lodges uncomfortably. The strain of banter based on the shallow brat Rog can sometimes find himself being is all well and funny, but he does have a brain under all that hair, and Brian has to remind himself, a pretty fucking sharp one too.

“Gosh, no tea for Freddie, I get it.” Deaky says, disappearing awkwardly into the kitchen and leaving the two of them steeping in the lingering animosity. Roger drinks his tea, so Brian drinks too, despite the fact that its scalding.

“Sorry.” He manages, embarrassingly quietly, and if Roger hears he doesn’t acknowledge it. Great. Now he’s well and truly going to sulk all day. John seems to psychically realise this from the other room, too, and he pipes up a suggestion.

“You should really go for a walk.”

Brian thinks Roger might actually throttle him if they tried. But Deaky catches himself and clarifies.

“Separately, mind you. Number 18 on the corner has already started putting up lights, they look lovely.”

They have been going quite stir-crazy cooped up in the flat, too cold outside to do anything, to oversaturated with playing to face a band rehearsal, and there’s evidently a time limit on their patience with each other.

“Good idea.” Roger says forcefully, pushing up off the sofa and shoving the sticks in the back pocket of the ridiculously tight jeans that Brian absolutely can’t stand. As he leaves, he snags John’s scarf from the back of the chair, and puts a cigarette between his lips.

He’s going to catch his death. And Brian wishes he didn’t care.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE UPDATE IS COMING i've just had my essay submission and an exam today but now i'm done! but it's still gonna be a couple of days so (Blue Peter voice) here's one i wrote earlier
> 
> i cannot stress how quick and shitty this is lol but i wanted to give u content and we love pining Bri
> 
> also Rog exclusively shags gals that are taller than him sorry but that's the T
> 
> thanks for ur patience and enjoy xx

Sometimes it's difficult to figure out just what it is that rubs Brian up the wrong way. (If you'll pardon the euphemism).

Maybe it's the way he takes hour long showers, setting the smoke alarm off with the great billowing clouds of steam that escape the bathroom door. Maybe it's the way he manages to studiously avoid ever having to take the bins out.

Today, this fine hungover Saturday morning, it's the way Roger saunters into the kitchen, pyjamas bottoms slung low on his slim hips, hair askew and stinking of sex.

Brian can't decide whether he's unaware the rest of them just heard every minute sound of them going at it through the thin flat walls, or that he's fully aware of it and thoroughly enjoying the ego stroking. He settles on the latter from the way Rog nicks a cigarette from John's pack on the kitchen table and gives him an unmissable wink as he sparks up.

"Busy night?" a bathrobed Freddie asks over the top of his coffee, and Brian almost wants to smack him for fuelling the fire, but Freddie never has been able to resist the juicy details of other people's personal lives. Roger just smirks, and takes a deliberately long drag of smoke, before responding.

"You could say that."

Freddie arches an eyebrow at him, an attempt to wrangle out the specifics, and Brian can't help but think that they're just going to be the same specifics as with every other girl Roger brings back from a gig, meaning they've all heard them at least ten times each. Roger, though, is all too happy to oblige, and launches into a recollection of filthy events that turn Brian off his cereal.

It's not that he's disrespectful in the way he's talking, so Brian isn't uncomfortable in that sense - the description is not demeaning in any way, more like a very detailed play by play of a particularly great footie game. Brian's not actually sure why he's so put on edge by it, but there are only so many times he can hear Roger describing the joys of eating a girl out. Freddie evidently doesn't feel the same, leaning back on the counter and giving knowing nods and smiles of approval.

Brian thinks he might be a prude. Or maybe Roger's just an unnaturally horny bastard.

"Any food going? I'm starving."

The question comes after another drag of smoke, and Brian nearly has to laugh at the Roger Meddows Taylor hierarchy of needs: sex, cigarettes and food.

Deaky flips shut the paper he's been reading as a disguise for eavesdropping and drops it folded on the table. He stands.

"There's still some bacon under the grill." he offers, before heading for the window, pulling it open in an attempt to stop Roger from hotboxing the tiny kitchen. The later now has a handful of bacon and speaks around the food in his mouth.

"Ah fuck, shut the window, Deaks, it's freezing."

John studiously ignores him, picks up his paper and leaves.

"Maybe if you weren't standing there with your tits out, you tart." Freddie points out, to Roger's mock-offence and takes a jab at his bare torso.

"I'm cut to the quick, Fred." he dodges, and chews the last bit of bacon as he speaks. Brian winces. "These tits are all I have."

He is an absolute idiot for going shirtless, even in the relatively insulated flat the early December air is chilling the very walls, and every time the front door is opened the blast of cold is like plunging into an ice bath, but Brian can't help the way his eyes drag down Roger's chest to where his sharp hipbones cut underneath the pyjama trousers. He screws his eyes closed to push away the thought.

"I don't know, you've got at least one more thing going for you."

It's her.

Brian can't remember her name, which he feels quite guilty about, but he figures Roger probably can't either, and he's the one who was shagging her all of an hour ago, which is rather more reprehensible. She's tall, taller than Roger, with thick auburn hair twisted up at the back of her head in an obviously effortlessly casual way. And she's beautiful. Obviously. They always are.

He leans in to kiss her eagerly, and she chastens it, palm flat on his bare chest and keeping the distance between them. It's only now that Brian realises she has her bag and coat on already.

"I'm off," she tells him as they pull apart, and Freddie frowns.

"Without an introduction?" he asks petulantly, and the look of momentary panic that flits across Roger's face confirms Brian's suspicions about remembering her name. She spots it too, and reaches a hand out to shake Freddie's, introducing herself to save Roger the mortification.

"Jemima."

Freddie kisses the proffered hand.

"At least stay for breakfast." he wheedles, and Brian wonders absently how long it would take Freddie to seduce any one of Roger's lovers. She smiles apologetically.

"I really have got to run," she says, turning back to Roger, who raises his eyebrows, "Work."

Brian's been on the recieving end of enough awkward morning after excuses to know that she's trying to pie him off. He's almost certain Roger knows this too, but the boy is valiant for trying. He reaches out a hand to rest on her arm.

"I'll call you." he tries; Brian can see every charm switch turned on, eyelashes fluttering, voice lowered slightly, fingers skating along the hem of her sleeve, and he fixes his eyes on his bowl to stop himself from flushing. She, though, laughs and kisses him on the cheek, before making for the door, calling over her shoulder.

"I didn't leave a number!"

And with the click of the lock, Roger lets out the most long suffering groan known to man.

"Fuuuuuuuuccckkkkkk."

Brian decides the way Roger looks when he's humiliated is something he can wholeheartedly get behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out more dumb thot rog in my other fic: i'm gonna come clean


End file.
